


Do not be afraid my child, she had said

by canbreathe



Series: For The Heart You Don't Have [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Can be stand alone, Gender-Neutral Chara, Gender-Neutral Frisk, Mental Breakdown, Mostly Evil Chara, POV Second Person, Semi-Evil Frisk, Short One Shot, Undertale Genocide Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-25 22:44:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12542896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canbreathe/pseuds/canbreathe
Summary: Though you only truly fear yourself...(Shutting down isn't a good defence)





	Do not be afraid my child, she had said

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QPxBtK35pw8

Your light steps tapped on the ground as you coldly stalked through the empty, dim, dusty hallways. You clumsy hand clutched your toy knife, so caked with dust that the stark grey plastic was hidden under the dull, silvery mass.

(You do realise that there's nobody left here?)

"There's always somebody left," you angrily mutter.

(Whatever, waste your time. Doesn't bother me. the voice hissed, with a clipped tone.)

You knew that it did bother the voice, that they were curious, that they wanted more, something else to clutch onto, the LOVE your emptied heart wasn't enough, no matter how much it grew.

A grey handprint was smeared against the wall as you walked onward, pressing your hand against the lifeless, violet stone.

It could _never_ be enough.

 

 

When you were finally satisfied with your fruitless search (you didn't even care that you didn't gain anything from it, you just knew that it was better to be safe than sorry), you found yourself in her house. A shaky breath choked its way out of your lungs as the faint scent of cold cinnamon and butterscotch loosely greeted your stony face. It grated against your dry throat, against your filthy hands. It took no notice of the dust mindlessly dancing in the air around you, it couldn't. You tried to swallow down the impending breakdown. It probably couldn't even tell how bittersweet it was.

(...)

The dust on your neck suddenly felt itchy, dirty, like it did hundreds of (stunted, choppy, incomplete) lifetimes ago.

It was scary, in a weird way. Were you even the same person?

(Stop crying. Big kids don't cry.)

(Yes, you were the same kid, you still are, you will always be.) Fresh tears cleaned your cheeks of the dust sprinkled on your face. Deep, hiccupping breaths pushed through your throat. You sat down onto the floor to avoid letting your shaking legs buckle under the weight of the dust you carried with you. You weren't a big kid, you were only meant to be eight, you weren't meant to have just _killed_ so many people.

You _scared_ yourself.

(GET UP! the voice roared.)

A cold glaze resettled itself over your watery eyes, as you stumbled back to your feet. You smeared the dust from your knife (you weren't really sure if it was a toy anymore) over your cheeks and smeared the rest onto your jumper.

 

You went back downstairs.

**Author's Note:**

> An early Halloween gift! I hope you liked this second part! :D


End file.
